


Make That Girl Smile

by Schwoozie



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Zombies, Barbecue, F/M, Lapdance, Magic Mike - Freeform, Strippers & Strip Clubs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-20
Updated: 2016-01-14
Packaged: 2018-04-10 06:01:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4379975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schwoozie/pseuds/Schwoozie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s Beth’s first birthday since her suicide attempt, and Maggie thinks she deserves something special. Spending her 18th birthday at the Dixon Lounge isn’t exactly what Beth thought she had in mind; neither, of course, is being singled out for a private dance from the owner’s little brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Beth doesn't think she's ever been so nervous in her whole life.

She told Maggie as soon as she saw the door: No. No way in hell was she spending her birthday—her 18th birthday, her birthday that officially ended the worst year of her life—at a _male stripper club_.

But Maggie insisted. And she was dragged inside. And before she knew it she was having ginger ales and dollar bills shoved in her hands and being told to go to town.

She has to admit. It wasn't as bad as she expected it to be. The place was nice, for starters—polished surfaces, bright corners, and an A health code rating all centered on what amounted to a cabaret show. Yes, the dancers wore a little less clothing than they would in most establishments, and yes, Beth walked around with singles sticking to her shoes; but all in all it wasn't more than she could handle. She was perfectly content with doing her time and going home.

That was before the owner found out it was her birthday. That was before he offered her a private dance, on the house. That was before Maggie accepted for her.

And now Beth is sitting in a straight-backed wooden chair in the center of a velvet-lined room, waiting for some half-dressed man to come in and give her the time of her life.

At least she doesn't have to wait long.

The door opens less than two minutes after she comes inside. She holds her breath as the handle turns, part of her praying it will be Maggie on the other side—hell, even her father would do—telling her what a horrible mistake this was, and that they're ready to bring her home. She is not the right girl for this. She and Jimmy had barely even kissed when they were dating, let alone did anything sexual. And here she is about to be grinded against by some man in a thong—

Then the man enters, and the air in her lungs spills out in one long gust.

He isn't what she expected, that's for sure.

Most of the men in the club remind her of Ken dolls. Waxed up the wazoo, clean-shaven, delicate features; plump, smiling lips revealing straight white teeth. Most of them had been blending into each other in one beefy parade of manflesh.

This one. This one is different. He's wearing clothes, for one—a button down sleeveless flannel and leather vest above, loose, ripped jeans below. His hair is unkempt, beard scruffy. His bare feet are all that tell her that he is indeed the man she's been sent in here to await.

His eyes go right to her as he opens the door. And that is why her breath leaves her—a piercing blue gaze that makes the breadth of his shoulders seem so, so much wider.

She might enjoy this after all.

She can feel her heart pounding in her throat as he looks her over. He seems wary—not as easy with a grin as his colleagues, definitely, and far more stoic. He waits until she finds herself able to blink again before speaking.

“You're Beth?”

His voice is gravelly and deep and makes her heart flutter like a butterfly.

“Yeah,” she says, far more high-pitched than she intends to. He continues to look her over and she can feel herself going beet red, from her forehead to her chest. “Um... how do we do this, then?”

The man shrugs, leaning against the door and crossing his arms— _arms the size of tree trunks_ , she thinks, taking them in as they bulge against his abdomen.

“You tell me,” he says. “You're the client.”

“Thought we're 'guests.' Ain't client a little impersonal?”

Beth doesn't know where the sass comes from, and he seems as surprised as she is; his eyes narrow and continue to flick over her, head to toe.

“Guess so,” he says. He brings a hand up to his mouth and begins chewing on a thumbnail. “Merle didn't force you in here, did he?”

“What, the owner? No, no, he didn't force me. Just said it was free, and my sister didn't think I should waste it, is all.”

“So you don't want to be here,” he says flatly.

“No, I mean... I'm sure you're very good—“

He smirks, then; just a twitch of his lips, a slight jerk of his eyes, but it's there, and it stops Beth in her tracks. He looks younger when he smiles. 

“It ain't gonna break my heart if you leave, girl. Ain't making money for this anyhow.”

“Why are you doing it then?”

“Owner's my brother,” he says, looking away from her. He shrugs. “Don't got nothing better to do.”

“Oh. Ok.”

Beth shifts in the chair, accidentally dragging up the hem of her dress in the process. Her hand flies up to tug it back down, but not before she sees his eyes flick to the white of her leg. It didn't go nearly high enough to reveal her panties, but just the thought of him seeing her inner thighs— _enjoying them_ , says the thick tongue he slides across his lips—leaves something in her feeling broken and shaky.

He squints at her a little longer, then says, “You're a virgin, ain't you?”

Beth's jaw drops halfway to China.

“What... _excuse me_?”

“I said—“

“No, I, you... you can't just _ask_ people that!”

“You don't think it's something I should know?” His voice gentles, somehow, losing some of its rough quality. “I know more'n one dance. Don't wanna do nothing you ain't ready for.”

Beth blinks. “I didn't know strippers were so considerate.”

His lips quirk again. She thinks she handles it marginally better this time. “Don't let Shane hear you saying that word. Fucking  _male entertainers_ is what we are.”

Beth raises her eyebrows. “And it don't matter to you?”

The man shrugs. “Do the same thing, either way. Word don't matter much.” He ducks his chin, looking at her carefully. “You are a virgin, then?”

Beth feels her blush deepen, but she's able to keep a straight face when she answers. “Yeah.”

The man nods once. “A'right.” With a sinuous roll of his muscles he pushes off from the door, walking to a small stereo set up in the corner. He picks up a battered old iPod, clicking through it until he finds what he wants. The music that goes on is some sort of slow, instrumental jazz beat; not at all the sexpot tune she would have expected. 

He presses another button, and the lights go down. Beth can still feel her heart pounding in her chest, but it doesn't feel life-threatening anymore; and when he walks towards her until he stands a mere foot from where she sits, she is able to meet his eyes without trembling.

“You lemme know if you want me to stop, alright?” he asks, voice a rumble, barely loud enough for her to hear. “One word from you and it's over.”

“Ok.”

“I mean it.” His gaze intensifies into something closer to a glare, and she feels it like a knife in her stomach. “You want this dance or not?”

Instead of giving him the answer she thinks he wants— _yes, of course she does, she does this kind of thing all the time, ya silly_ —she waits. And thinks. Because she doesn't know if that's the answer he's looking for.

He isn't looking for any answer; not really. Not one or the other. He looks at her with his narrow eyes and set jaw and strong chin and he asks her what she wants.

What  _she_ wants.

And when she gives it, it's no one's answer but hers.

“I want it.”

He nods. And rolls his shoulders. And begins to dance.

* * *

She knows it should look ridiculous; a grown man undulating his hips like a belly dancer, raising his arms above his head, swaying with the music in rough clothes and bare feet. It's what she had thought about the men outside—it was fun to watch them, but they were hamming it. Joking around. It would never be worth anything more than pure aesthetic pleasure.

That isn't this. It so isn't this.

He's serious. Dead serious, in every motion he makes. Head tilted back, eyes narrowed slits, arms glistening in the low light as he moves to make them flex. Beth feels her discomfort bleeding out of her bit by bit, her back slumping, knees dropping open a few inches, lips parting to let the air tickle her tongue and teeth as he grips the hem of his shirt, gives it a tug, and yanks it free.

It must have been attached to his vest by some kind of velcro, for it falls away easily, fluttering to the floor. Beth gulps at the sight of his naked torso, framed by the leather—not waxed, she sees in the droplets of sweat shimmering off his chest hair, and not chiseled like so many of the men on the dance floor. But she can tell he does work with his body—real work, work that's sculpted his pecs into one solid board, his abs into a staircase she longs to climb. And she longs for it, she realizes, she does; and it's just as she becomes aware of the wetness seeping into her panties that he drops to his knees and urges her legs apart.

She doesn't think to resist until they've already dropped open and he's ducking his head down, rubbing his scruff up her calf to her knee while he holds her loosely by the ankles. 

It isn't any sort of discomfort that makes her knees knock closed, but the spike of pleasure she gets at the rough texture on her skin; the realization that even with her panties on full display, he hasn't looked away from her eyes once.

He freezes the moment her knees close around his head, and she forces them open a little, blushing. He licks his lips and ducks his chin, eyes boring into hers.

“Too much?”

“No... no. Just surprised me.”

His eyebrows twitch, as if asking if she's sure—and she realizes she is. She is.

And she lets her legs fall.

He doesn't do anything for a few moments—just feathers his hands up and down her ankles, holding her gaze as he begins to sway again. By the time her breath has fallen back into its slow, deep rhythm, he's running his hands up her legs—barely skimming the skin, but sending electricity through her veins all the same. He continues until he reaches her thighs, then in one smooth movement digs his fingers in and levers his weight and surges up her body.

Her breath catches as his chin skims the fabric between her breasts, his face passing so near to hers that she feels his hot breath on her lips, and then he's there, in front of her, his chest and his abs and the bulge in his pants and her palms suddenly feel like they want to crawl off her body.

“Can I...”

She looks up at him looking down. Something new seems to come into his eyes at her question, a deeper sort of darkness that makes her long to push her open legs forward to wrap around his hips. His voice, when it comes out, seems deeper, too, more throaty and uncontrolled.

“Above the belt,” he says.

She blushes fiercely at the intimation of what else she could mean—she hadn't even considered  _that_ until he mentioned it, and now, now that idea doesn't sound too bad—but still, she nods. Nods and brings her shaking hands up from where they had been gripping the chair to press slowly to his pulsing abdomen.

For several long moments she is so overwhelmed by the heat and the hardness that she doesn't realize he's started moving again—rolling his hips until he's practically thrusting into her face. She feels the rough of his jeans brush her forearms several times and it takes all she has not to press herself back.

She focuses on his stomach instead. The way the muscles roll, and clench, and shimmer in the low light as she runs her hands across them, her own paleness seemingly translucent against his darker skin. A fine layer of hair covers most of his stomach, roughening around his belly button into a thatch that leads down into his pants, already low-slung and sliding down his hips as he moves, revealing the strong V of his pelvis and the thickening of hair down below. 

“My God,” she whispers before she even thinks to not, and her head jerks up at the snort from above. “What?” she asks, pretending to be cross, but unable to keep the breathiness from her voice.

He's smirking again, but when he speaks he sounds breathless too. “Like what you see, huh?”

“Yeah,” Beth says, without a moment of hesitation. 

He knows. From her flushed face and trembling hands he knows, and that thrills her almost as much as the movement of his body does.

“More where that comes from,” he says, and before she can stop him he's stepping out of her reach. Her eyes flicker from his hips to his eyes. When he speaks, his voice is rough. “Want them off?”

It takes her a moment to realize—from the way his stomach rolls, the next inch of skin revealed as his jeans slide down—that he's talking about his pants. 

She assumes he's wearing underwear. That's a policy here, isn't it?

She finds herself—her blushing, virginal self—hoping against hope that there isn't.

“Yes. Yeah. Take them off, please.”

He doesn't make the show of it she expects; just undoes the button, unzips the fly, works the loose material slowly down his hips until he can step out of them. He isn't wearing spangled underwear, but plain black boxer briefs, and he's—

He's big. She knows enough about male anatomy to know he's big. She could have guessed it anyway, from his hands, his bare feet standing long on the carpet. 

But it isn't just that. It could never be just that. 

He isn't just big. He's hard too.

And that's when Beth feels a spike of lust in her gut so acute she nearly groans.

This is real.

This is something real and it's something she  _wants_ .

“You...”

She trails off, and looks up at him. Wonders if this is part of the game. Wonders if Merle Dixon sent her here for more than a free dance. 

Wonders if she's expected to give him something that Jimmy'd only dreamed of.

But she looks at his face. At his face—dark, sharp, intense. Staring down at her with the same consideration he'd given her since he walked in.

But there's lust too. She sees it, feels it, rolling off of him. Lust, and something soft. Something shy. Something ashamed. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

He didn't expect this either, and that makes her brave.

“C'mon then,” she breathes, sitting back in the chair, letting her legs drop open once more. “Show me what you got, Mr. Dixon.”

His eyes drill into her as he steps forward, the wings of his pelvis framing the hard thing between his legs as he continues to dance. She doesn't stare at it—lets herself take in all of him, from his broad shoulders to his shapely calves, stopping on his crotch only as an afterthought. Because he's beautiful. All of him is beautiful, not least of all the eyes that refuse to leave hers.

He's straddling her lap when the song comes to an end—rolling his hips up against her, barely holding his weight with his hands on the chair back, touching her only in glancing brushes that feel like grinding drags all the same.

They're both panting by the end of it, and it takes him several moments to climb off of her. He's shining with sweat, the leather of his vest sticking visibly to his body. He's still hard—achingly hard, it looks like, and she wonders if she should offer to do something about that—but it's clear their dance is done. 

He pulls his pants up, wincing a little as he drags them over his tender flesh, and stoops to grab the strip of fabric meant to represent his shirt. He doesn’t look at her as he does it, not once, and the closer he comes to finishing the higher the anxiety ratchets up in her gut. 

He's at the door before she finds the voice to speak.

“Wait.”

He pauses, hand on the doorknob. He doesn't turn around.

“I... What's your name?”

He looks down, and sideways, just enough that he might see her out the corner of his eye. He might not, of course. But she's willing to hope.

“Daryl,” he says. 

Beth's hands twitch at her sides, then reach down to grab her purse where it sits under the chair. She has about 50 singles left, and she pulls out all of them. She stands on wobbly legs.

“You don't gotta—“

“I want to,” she says. When he still doesn't move, she walks forward, barely tottering on her heels. She comes to within a foot of him, and holds out the money. “You deserve it,” she says.

“I told you,” he says softly, sounding unaccountably young. “Don't do it for that.”

“Why do it then?”

“Cause...” He does look at her, now; side-on, and then head-on, seeming strangely close now that their height difference has lessened. “Y'all need me. Ain't been needed for nothing before.”

“I don't need you,” Beth says softly. She holds out the money again. “I do want you, though. A lot.”

He shakes his head, looking at the ground. “Ain't real, girl. In here, ain't none of it real.”

“I know,” she says. 

“So. What?”

Steeling her breath, she steps forward, boldness in her heart when she sees his own breath has stopped. Reaching out, she takes his hand, and presses the bills into his palm. 

He looks at her, gaze hesitant, soft. For the first time all night—for the first time all year, it feels—she smiles. 

“Who knows. What'll happen out there.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beth went to a stripper club for her birthday and had the most amazing sexual experience of her young life. The world being what it is, she knows she has to put it all behind her.
> 
> The world being what it is, though, means it is very unlikely she'll be able to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Un-beta'd because I'm pretending I'm not actually continuing this.
> 
> Go away.

She doesn't see him again until she's helping her daddy shop for their Fourth of July cookout.

He looks so exactly like he did in the club that she spends a few moments wondering if she's hallucinating. His hair is longer, yes, his beard more trimmed—but his jeans, his sleeveless flannel are the same. There's no vest, but it doesn't matter. Beth sees him in the vegetable aisle, glaring at the tomatoes he holds in each hand, and she feels a spike of heat so intense she nearly bowls over.

And then the heat is gone, swept away by the ice cream cooler her father had just opened, and she's left there staring at an attractive man in the produce section who she knows happens to moonlight as a male stripper.

A normal day for her, really.

She doesn't wait for her father to reply to her offer to get the corn—just drops her hands from the cart and makes a beeline for the vegetables.

She sidles up to him as casually as she can, reaching out to fiddle with the peppers, thinking perhaps it's best to get him acclimated to her presence before announcing herself. Maybe he'll even look at her first, and she won't have to say anything.

He doesn't look at her, though; ignores her completely, in fact, so engrossed is he in his tomatoes.

It only takes Beth a few moments to get impatient. She glances past him, and sees her daddy nowhere to be found. She takes a deep breath. _Now or never_.

“You should get that one,” Beth says, nodding at the tomato nearer to herself. “The color's better. Could probably eat it right here and it'd taste good.”

He gives her an annoyed glance, like even her token attempt at communication is exasperating. She waits, heart pounding, knowing he didn't really register her. She gives it one beat, two—

And then he freezes. Turns slowly. Meets her eyes with his.

And the tomatoes explode in his hands.

Beth doesn't even have time to squeak before the pulp splatters across her yellow shirt. As it is, the surprise makes her stumble back, and before she knows it he's dropping what remains of the tomatoes and steadying her with a sticky hand around her bicep.

And then they're left standing there. Dripping with tomato juice, his hand strong on her arm, pulsing gently before he releases her slowly. The blood rushing again through her arm makes the skin tingle, and she barely resists raising a hand to rub the spot.

He lowers his hand to his side, fingers twitching as he stares at her.

“The fuck are you doing here?” he asks.

“Same as you,” she says. “Shopping.”

He scowls fiercely; if she didn't know what he looks like in nothing but underwear and a hard on, she might be intimidated.

“You know that ain't what the fuck I mean.”

Beth shrugs, attempting to appear nonchalant even as her heart pounds. “I recognized you. Wanted to say hi.”

He stares at her, shaking his head slowly.

“You wanted to say hi.”

“Yeah,” Beth says. She knows she's blushing now, but she holds her stance firm. “It's the polite thing to do you know.”

“Polite is pretending you never met me, girl.”

Beth rears back, mouth falling open before her jaw tightens. His words sting more than she thinks they should.

“Well _excuse me_ , Mr. Dixon, I never meant to _bother_ you.”

She starts to spin away, but then Daryl's hand is around her arm again. It lingers longer, this time, as she lets him turn her.

“Wait,” he says, voice tight. “I didn't mean it like that.”

Beth raises her eyebrows, glaring him down. “Don't really know how else you can mean it.”

“I just...”

He seems to notice that he's still holding onto her, and he jerks his hand away to run his fingers through his hair. Beth almost reminds him of the tomato innards still coating his skin, but decides against it; she doesn't want to distract him.

“Yes?” she prompts.

“You don't wanna be seen with me,” he says. “People'd... think things about you. Things that ain't right. You don't want that.”

“What would they think?” Beth asks.

He's blushing now. Beth finds it oddly endearing.

“You. You know.”

“ _No_ , I don't. That's why I asked.”

“They'd think you were fucking like me, alright?”

“What does that...” Beth trails off, eyes widening. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“But... it's not like everyone knows what you do.”

“It ain't what I _do_ , girl.” Daryl seems to notice the tomato juice still coating his hands, and wipes them on his jeans angrily. “Listen, I gotta go, alright? I got a late shift tonight—“

“There you are, Bethy.”

They both freeze at the voice coming from behind Beth. She would think the look on Daryl's face was hilarious if she wasn't sure she was sporting the exact same one.

She gathers herself quickly, taking a deep breath and looking intensely at Daryl.

_Be cool_ , she mouths. Daryl twists his face at her, like he finds her order ridiculous—but he does at least try to loosen his shoulders as Beth plasters on a smile and turns towards her father.

“Hey Daddy,” she says. “Did you find the sauce you were looking for?”

“Got the last one,” he says, coming to stand beside her. She bites her lip as he looks Daryl over. She thanks God when his expression remains only curious. “Are you going to introduce me, Beth?”

“Uh... yeah, yeah, this is Daryl. He's... he's a waiter. He works at the restaurant Maggie took me to on my birthday.”

She can feel Daryl looking at her like she's crazy, but she has eyes only for her daddy, batting them innocently and trying to distract him from Daryl's horrible poker face.

“You gave him a fair tip, I assume.”

Beth thinks about the $50 in singles she had shoved into his hands. Her face ratchets up a few degrees at the memory.

“Yes, Daddy, of course.”

Hershel sticks out his hand, taking a step forward. “Good to meet you, Daryl. I'm Hershel, Beth and Maggie's father.”

Daryl goes to return the handshake before remembering himself; he wipes his hand on his jeans one more time before pressing it into Hershel's.

Beth almost laughs, then. Because there is Daryl, so terrified; Hershel, so benign; and Beth in the middle, watching her father shake hands with the man she paid $50 to thrust his own crotch into her face.

“Sir,” he says.

A little giggle does escape Beth, but only as a puff of air. She bites her lip, and sobers again. This isn't over yet.

Hershel lets go of Daryl's hand and peers at him for a few moments. Daryl squirms under his gaze.

“You doing anything tomorrow evening, son?”

Daryl frowns. “Tomorrow, sir?”

“Fourth of July. My family and I are hosting a cookout. You're welcome to join us.”

Beth doesn't know what her face wants to do. She settles for watching the myriad of emotions play across Daryl's face, too quickly for her to catch anything more than a general feeling of bewilderment.

“You, uh... you ain't gotta do that.”

“I insist,” Hershel says. He nods at his daughter. “Give him our address, Bethy; I'm going to go find the coleslaw.”

“Alright, Daddy.”

“Good to meet you, Daryl.”

“Yeah,” Daryl says, sounding dazed as Hershel walks away.

They stand there looking after Hershel before turning their eyes to each other at the same time. Daryl looks away, blushing, but Beth's gaze holds firm. She feels a sense of resolve building in her chest that she doesn't think she's ever felt.

“Well?" she asks. "You coming or what?”

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The barbecue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you believe this story is still alive? There will be one more chapter after this.
> 
> Warning for mention of a suicide attempt. 
> 
> Thanks for reading :)

Beth waits until an hour after the cookout begins before giving up on him.

She's more disappointed than she expected to be. She's more disappointed than she _should_ be. Hell, being disappointed at _all_ is more than a normal person would feel. Or at least that's what Maggie would say, if Beth told her about this. Which she hasn't. And won't. Not for a million years.

 _At least he never went into the main part of the club_ , Beth thinks as Jimmy chatters away about his new truck, _If we run into him in town or something, she'll never recognize him. It's like the whole thing never happened._

But it did happen, and Beth knows that. She just doesn't know what exactly _it_ is.

“You should feel the horsepower on it, Beth, it's really amazing... I could take you for a ride sometime...”

She thinks she's beginning to understand that “it” a little better, though. Because as Jimmy talks and Shania plays and the party enjoys itself around her, her face heats. Butterflies erupt in her chest. Her palms sweat and her legs shake and she swears she feels her heart begin to pound a tango.

Because everyone except him is accounted for. And there's a beat up old truck making its way down the lane.

“Sounds great, Jimmy,” Beth says, throwing him a distracted smile. “Finish telling me about that later, alright?”

She catches the edge of a confused look before she's walking rapidly across the lawn.

She reaches the driveway just as he pulls in, and she's close enough to see his reaction when he notices her coming. He freezes, for one; his face locks and his lips part and his eyes sweep her up and down like lashes of fire.

It's upwards of 90 degrees out, but that doesn't stop Beth from shivering.

“You made it,” she says a little breathlessly as he steps from the car, his thigh stretching distractingly when his boot hits the ground. He looks practically identical to the way he looked yesterday—if his shirt weren't a slightly different color, she'd think he hadn't bothered to change—and he's looking at her the same way too; a little bewildered and slightly spacey and with more intensity than she thinks anyone has ever looked at her in her entire life.

Who could fault her for swooning?

“Yeah,” he says, slamming the door closed and rubbing his hands on his jeans. “Sorry I'm late, I had work—“

“No, no, it's fine,” Beth says, coming to a stop before him. She isn't sure what to do with her hands, so she links them behind her, rocking a little on her heels. “I'm glad you're here,” she says.

His mouth twitches, like he doesn't know whether to smile or frown. “You are, are ya?”

Beth bites her lip and nods, she hopes not too enthusiastically. By the look on his face—startled and wary but building in amusement—she isn't sure she succeeded. But she's not sure he minds either.

He's looking at her, she realizes; and duh, yes, he's looking at her, they're having a conversation—but he's _looking_ at her: eyes focused on her face but darting down every few moments like they belong to someone else, like there's a physical force drawing his gaze to her body—and she feels so alive and full of fire that she doesn't second guess herself when she steps forward and takes his hand.

She sees him stiffen up at her touch, but she doesn't feel it; his hand seems to melt into her, smoothing its rough surface against her skin. It only makes her grip him tighter.

“C'mon and meet everyone,” she says.

A look of terror passes across his face, but then she smiles—wide, toothy, a smile from years gone by, from when her mama was alive and Beth was just a girl in a great big world—and his features relax. Smooth. Take her in one more time, not quite as briefly as before, lingering where eyes are wont to linger—and she doesn't suppress the shiver that flows from her hand to his.

“C'mon,” she says again, voice low and soft and not sounding at all like the Beth she knows—and he smiles too. Barely there, no more than a tug of his cheek—but a smile nonetheless. A smile for her.

“Your show, girl,” he says.

And he follows where she leads.

* * *

Beth isn't surprised by how seamlessly Daryl is folded into the party, but she can't say the same about Daryl. He carries this look on his face like he's expecting it all to come falling down like comets from the sky. Like he's gonna blink and find her daddy running after him with a shotgun.

Her daddy seems almost as excited to see him here as Beth was. He comes over as soon as he sees him, interrupting the Millers asking Beth about school, to shake Daryl's hand.

“I'm glad you made it.”

“Thanks, sir,” Daryl says, entire body tense, watching the Millers wander away.

Hershel scoffs, standing to his full height. “Come on now, none of this 'sir' nonsense, I'm starting to feel like my father. You'd want to feel that way, son?”

Daryl flinches like he's been struck. Beth glances at her daddy as Daryl flounders. “No,” he says.

“Well that's just fine,” Hershel says, a little softer. “I wouldn't want to feel like mine either. So it's Hershel from now on, alright?”

“Yeah. Alright.”

“Good man,” Hershel says, clapping Daryl on the back. He flinches again, but it's a little more controlled, like he's expecting it. “I'm gonna go check on those burgers now. Get yourself some lemonade, Bethy made it special this morning.”

For the first time in the conversation, Daryl seems to relax a little, glancing at Beth. “Yeah?”

“Yup,” Beth says. She pokes him in the chest as Hershel turns and walks away. “And you better say you like it, or you ain't invited to the next one of these.”

Daryl stares at her for a moment, then sticks his hands in his pockets and looks at the party through his bangs, hiding himself.

“Still ain't sure why I'm at this one.”

Beth's smile softens, and she reaches out to take his hand. As she does so, her knuckles brush the rough fabric of his shirt, and she's hit with a flash of memory of her hands on his stomach. How hard it felt, with just the right amount of give, the thick hair leading down from his belly button.

And it hits Beth, suddenly, exactly how little his being here has to do with her being a good Christian. And how much of it had to do with where that trail leads.

He must see her growing dismay, for his hand tightens on hers just as she begins to pull away. Not enough to keep her there, but enough to let her know he wants her to stay.

And that's enough for a lot of things.

So Beth smiles again, and squeezes back.

“Cause I want you here,” she says.

Daryl stares at her again, that deep, considering stare that roused so many feelings in her gut at the club and is doing the exact same now, and for one breathless moment she imagines him bending forward and kissing her in front of everybody.

He doesn't, of course. Just loosens his hold on her hand, letting it fall away. He doesn't protest, though, when she steps up to his side and presses a hand against his lower back. If anything, he seems to like it. If anything, he shivers.

“Let's get that lemonade, then,” Beth says.

* * *

They spend an hour like that; eating, wandering around the lawn, talking to people. Well, Beth talks to people; Daryl stands behind her like a great silent shadow, staring intent and wide-eyed at everything, like a baby outside for the first time. Not that she thinks of him as a baby—far from it, she thinks, face growing warm—but there's something of a wonder about him, a bone deep newness that sets her heart pounding almost as hard as it had been at the club.

Beth's just finished her burger, is laughing at the ketchup in Daryl's beard, when she feels a presence hovering beside her. She turns and she jumps, hand flying to her heart.

“Jesus, Maggie, you startled me!” Beth says. She drops her hand from her chest, but realizes her other arm can't move. She looks down and sees that Daryl has grabbed her, like he's preparing to drag her behind himself. Daryl meets her eyes and seems to read the lack of danger. His hand falls away without comment, but Beth still feels its imprint on her skin. Had his grip been just a little tighter, she thinks she might have bruised.

That idea appeals to her. It appeals very much.

She drags her attention back to her sister, who is standing there looking between them with a forcefully blank expression.

“Everything alright?” Beth asks.

Maggie doesn't say anything, then steps towards Daryl, so suddenly and so forcefully that he takes a step back, his widened eyes flicking between her outstretched hand and too-wide smile.

“I've seen you going around with Beth all day and I don't think we've been introduced yet,” she says. Daryl puts his hand in hers cautiously, flinching a little when she pumps it with force. “I'm Maggie Greene, Beth's sister. And you are...”

“Daryl,” Daryl mutters, shooting Beth a frantic look. Maggie hasn't let go of his hand.

“Just Daryl?”

Daryl nods mutely, and Beth steps forward, skin prickling at his distress.

“Maggie–“

“Cause see,” Maggie says over her, “most people tend to have last names. Especially _waiters_.”

Beth blinks. Daryl swallows. Maggie doesn't let go of his hand.

“Maggie–“

Maggie swivels her head to look at Beth, a terrifying gleam in her eye.

“Let's talk, Beth.”

Practically throwing Daryl's hand down, Maggie grabs Beth's forearm and drags her a few meters away.

“Ow! Maggie–“

Maggie comes to a sudden stop and rounds on Beth, fury in her eyes.

“Are you _serious_ , Bethany Anne?” she hisses. “You invited a _stripper_ to Daddy's barbecue?”

“He's not _just_ a stripper, he's–“

“What, so you _didn't_ meet him at the club? He wasn't the guy the owner sent back to dance for you?” Beth opens her mouth, and closes it. Maggie throws her arms up in the air. “I cannot believe–“ She freezes, looks at Beth with a renewed glare. “You didn't sleep with him, did you?”

“Maggie–“

“Is that why all your money was gone at the end of the night, cause this guy talked you into paying for _sex_?”

“He didn't talk me into anything, _Margaret_ ,” Beth hisses. Maggie's eyes open wide, shocked. Beth takes a few heaving breaths into the silence. “Nothing happened back there that wasn't supposed to happen. That _you_ didn't force me into.”

“I didn't force you–“

“Didn't spend a lot of time asking for my opinion!” Beth's voice is raised enough that she's sure they're turning some heads, but she's suddenly so furious that she doesn't care. “He asked me what I wanted more times in 15 minutes than you have my whole life!”

“Bethy–“

“Just cause I tried to kill myself doesn't mean I don't know what I want.” By the time she ends the sentence her voice has dropped; she feels tears struggling into her throat and she angrily swallows them down. “I saw him in the grocery store. He was there just like me, just like Daddy, cause he's a person like all of us. And I liked what he did for me, so I invited him. Why is that wrong?”

“Beth,” Maggie says, “Just cause you're attracted to someone–“

“That's not what I meant.” Beth steps closer, grabs Maggie's wrist. “He made me feel _important_ , Maggie. Like I was the only person in the world for him. And I haven't–, I've _never_ felt that. And it wasn't cause I paid him. I know it isn't.”

“Beth, honey, that's his job,” Maggie says, clutching Beth's other hand. “Making women feel like that, that's what they do. It ain't... it doesn't mean something special, you aren't–“

“I'm not special?”

Maggie's eyes widen. “You know that's not–“

Beth rips herself away, taking two steps back and wiping furiously at her cheeks, coming away with angry tears.

“No, I know what you mean,” Beth says. “And I don't care. I asked him to come, and he came, and he's here, and you can just go back to your boyfriend and leave me alone. You're good at that.”

And with that Beth turns and stalks away.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After her showdown with Maggie, Daryl has disappeared. Beth is determined to find him and set things right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ending is very different than the one I expected, but I still like it; I hope you do too :)

Beth is halfway across the lawn before she realizes that she has no idea where Daryl went.

She comes to an abrupt halt, looking around dumbly for a few moments. Everywhere are her friends and family, chatting, enjoying themselves. Daddy's brought the watermelon out, two gigantic melons that he'd split with an ax and had Beth and Maggie cut into triangles. He's standing by the melon table now, talking with Otis.

Beth hurries towards them, catching the tail end of a conversation about one of the tractors.

“—ain't running so well as she used to, I can always tune her up—“

“Daddy,” Beth says, a little breathless.

Hershel turns and smiles down at her. “Hey Doodlebug.” When he takes in her expression, however, the smile falls from his face. “Beth, what happened?”

Beth panics for a moment, and prepares to lie—but lying is what got her into this in the first place. Acting like it's shameful how she and Daryl met. Carting him around like he's a dirty little secret, showing off to Jimmy the kind of man she can get, shocking their small town guests with the contrasts between them. Inviting him in the first place, really; inviting him because she wants to finish what they started in that room. To get to know him, yes, but to do that too. Because that's what strippers are for, right? No matter that they don't sell themselves, it seems like the offer is always there.

Beth's tired of lying.

“Maggie got pissed off at Daryl and now I can't find him,” Beth says. “Did you see where he went?”

Hershel frowns. “What was the problem?”

Beth swallows the lump in her throat. “I'll tell you later, just, I really need to talk to him–“

“I saw him heading towards the barn a few minutes ago,” Otis says. “Thought he was just getting tired of all the talking. Seems like the quiet type.”

“Yeah. Yeah, he is. Thank you, Otis.”

Beth begins to turn when Hershel calls her back.

“Beth,” he says. She expects him to question her further, and tenses her shoulders in preparation—then blinks when he holds out a plate of watermelon containing two hulking slices. “Don't forget to take some watermelon. Fresh as it is, it'd be a shame for him to miss out on it.”

Beth smiles, taking the plate and stretching up to kiss his cheek. “Thanks Daddy,” she says. She smiles again at Otis, then whirls around to trot towards the barn.

She understands exactly why Otis would expect Daryl to come here for privacy; as she closes the barn door behind her, it blocks out the sounds of the party almost completely. She herself sighs in relief, thankful for the break; then begins peering through the shadows of the barn. She steps forward slowly, hoping not to startle the animals.

“Daryl?” she calls out softly. Nelly stretches her muzzle out as Beth passes, nearly getting a bite out of the watermelon; Beth shoos her away with an annoyed hand. “They're not for you, Nelly, cut that out–“

Beth comes to a stop, because there Daryl is. He doesn't so much emerge from the shadows as the shadows slide back to reveal him. He's chewing on an unlit cigarette, looking at her with his chin down, eyes narrowed. He takes the cigarette out of his mouth and shoves it back into its pack as she approaches.

“Hey,” she says.

He doesn't even grunt in return. Just focuses on keeping the cigarettes straight in the box, closing it carefully before shoving it back into his jeans. Beth suspects it's a full two minutes before he even meets her eyes again.

He doesn't say a word. This is her show.

“I'm sorry about Maggie,” Beth says, hoping her voice doesn't come out too shaky. “She's a big fat hypocrite; she's the one who brought me there, and then to criticize me making friends with you–“

“That's what we are? Friends?”

Beth is shocked speechless for a moment by his voice, so strange to hear echoing through the barn. She looks between his eyes, then takes a step closer. If he weren't leaning against the wall, she suspects he would be stepping backwards.

“I want to be,” Beth says. “Don't you want that?”

Daryl squints at her, then looks at the ground, crosses his arms. “You're nuts,” he mutters.

Beth feels a hint of irritation spike through her belly. “What, cause you don't think we should be friends? That I'm just some teenager you danced for who pestered you into meeting her family? Is that what this is?” Daryl doesn't say anything, keeps looking at his shoes.

Beth feels frustrated tears building in her eyes, and she blinks them away angrily. “You think you ain't good enough to be here. Ok, I get that. I don't agree, but I get it. But is it more than that? You think I'm just a pathetic little girl bothering you, hoping to get some?” More silence. “Dammit, Daryl!” Beth shouts, just stopping herself from stomping her foot. “Ok, you want the truth? Yes, I wanna sleep with you. I enjoyed–, I really enjoyed what you did for me.” Daryl glances up at her, and her cheeks flame. “But it's... it ain't just that, ok? Cause I ain't... no one's taken care of me like that before.” Daryl furrows his eyebrows, and Beth looks away, finally losing the battle against the tears now tracking down her cheeks. “I mean, my family takes care of me. They take care of me till I wanna choke, till I wanna...” Beth pauses, rubbing the scar on her wrist against her jeans as it tingles. “But you asked me what I wanted. For _me_. You did something for _me_ , cause it would make me feel good. And I know that's your job, and I know you probably act that way for everyone, do that for everyone, and you think I'm ridiculous cause I think there's something real there, but... I do. I do think it's there. And if you'd just _say_ something–“

“I don't.”

Beth looks at him. He's looking at the ground again, arms flexing against his chest like he wants to break his own ribcage to get away from this conversation.

“You don't what?” Beth asks, taking a step forward. He glances up at her approach, and holds her gaze; she can tell how hard that is for him. “You don't _what_ , Daryl?”

“I don't do that for everyone,” he says; quietly, barely moving his lips, but he says it.

She's standing close enough that if she reached out she could touch his chest, but he doesn't feel like he's trying to escape anymore.

“Why me, then?” Beth asks. She realizes her hands are shaking, and grabs the plate of watermelon with both hands to keep from dropping it. “Daryl?”

“I'unno,” he mutters, glancing away as he says it. He looks back though. He looks back. “Something 'bout you. You seemed sad.”

Beth blinks, furrows her brow. “I wasn't sad. I mean...” she swallows, feels that tingle in her wrist again. “I guess I am. But I wasn't then.”

Daryl shrugs. “Just a feeling,” he says.

Beth tilts her head. “And you wanted to make me happy?”

Daryl shrugs again, looks at his feet, mumbles something unintelligible. Beth looks at him as he scuffs his feet in the hay, brings a thumb to his mouth to chew on the cuticle. He's nervous, she realizes. He's so nervous.

Beth smiles; with tears on her face, and just a small one, but she smiles. “Thought you said nothing real happens in there.”

“Didn't think it did,” he whispers. Beth takes a step, and then another, and when her feet come into his eye-line his head jerks up, looking at her suspiciously. “What're you doing?” he asks.

Beth swallows. Looks between his eyes. Holds up the plate like an offering.

“I brought watermelon.”

He looks at the plate. He looks at her. He looks at the plate again.

And then he smiles. It's not a comfortable smile; not a practiced one. But it fits his face just fine.

“Yeah. Yeah, you did.”

She smiles, holds it up higher. “Wanna share it?”

His smile fades, but not the sparkle in his eyes; nor the warmth that seems to be building as he examines her face.

“Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

Beth doesn't move as he raises his arm; doesn't move as his hand rests on her cheek, his thumb hovering uncertainly until it lands by her mouth. He presses his thumb into the corner of her smile, lifting it up higher; sweeps his thumb across her lips. Beth parts them slightly; kisses his thumb as it passes again, until he's smiling too.

“Whatever you want, girl,” he says. “Whatever you want.”

 


End file.
